may make a few quotations, as his high standing as a jurist and
reputation for veracity and legal shrewdness make him a witness whose
word would be accepted without question on any ordinary subject. He
gives the following strange experience: "During the last illness of my
revered old friend Isaac T. Hopper I was a good deal with him, and on
the day when he died I was with him from noon till about seven o'clock
in the evening. I then supposed he would live yet for several days, and
at that hour I left to attend my circle, proposing to call again on my
way home. About ten o'clock in the evening, while attending the circle,
I asked if I might put a mental question. I did so, and I know that no
person present could know what it was, or to what subject even it
referred. My question related to Mr. Hopper, and I received for answer
through the rappings, as from himself, that he was dead. I hastened
immediately to his house, and found that it was so. That could not have
been from any one present, for they did not know of his death, nor did
they understand the answer I received. It could not have been the reflex
of my own mind, for I had left him alive, and thought that he would live
several days."
Of his statements in regard to physical phenomena the following may be
quoted: "I have known a pine table with four legs lifted bodily up from
the floor in the centre of a circle of six or eight persons, turned
upside down, and laid upon its top at our feet, then lifted up over our
heads and put leaning against the back of the sofa on which we sat. I
have seen a mahogany table, having only a centre leg, and with a lamp
burning upon it, lifted from the floor at least a foot, in spite of the
efforts of those present, and shaken backward and forward as one would
shake a goblet in his hand, and the lamp retain its place, though its
glass pendants rung again. I have seen the same table tipped up with the
lamp upon it, so that the lamp must have fallen off unless retained
there by something else than its own gravity; yet it fell not, moved
not. I have known a mahogany chair thrown on its side and moved swiftly
back and forth on the floor, no one touching it, through a room where
there were at least a dozen persons sitting; and it was repeatedly
stopped within a few inches of me, when it was coming with a violence
which, if not arrested, must have broken my legs."
Of the phenomena classed under the head of spiritualistic three
explanations have been offered. One is that they are purely the result
of fraud in the mediums and self-delusion in the believers. A second is
that they are due to some unknown law and force of nature, the physical
manifestations being ascribed to a psychic energy of nervous origin, the
mental to _unconscious cerebration_. A third explanation is that they
are due to the action of disembodied spirits, who are able to return to
the earth and make their presence manifest in all the methods above
recounted. Of these explanations the first is that given by the general
public, and particularly by those who know nothing practically about the
subject, but have reached their opinions by their own inner
consciousness and without troubling themselves to investigate the facts.
That it does apply, however, to much of what is known as spiritual
manifestations there can be no doubt. Of frauds under the name of
mediums there has been an abundance. Of dupes under the name of
Spiritualists there has been an equal abundance. And the tricks of false
mediums have been so often detected as to throw a shadow of doubt over
everything connected with the asserted phenomena. Yet that it is not all
fraud has been abundantly proved by the testimony of the men above named
and many others of equal powers of discrimination, and by the occurrence
of numerous phenomena under circumstances that absolutely precluded
deception, either in medium or audience. To these cases one or other of
the second and third explanations must be given. Acceptance of the
third, that they are really the work of spirits, would of course settle
the whole business and explain all the phenomena in a word. But the
great body of critical observers are disinclined to accept this theory,
for the reason that many of the scientific class doubt the existence of
any spirit beyond the earth-life, that many of the religious class
question the possibility of freed spirits returning to earth, and that
many of an intermediate class consider the manifestations too puerile
and the mental communications given too unsatisfactory and too far below
the mental calibre of the professed speakers to be worthy of assignment
to any such source. These communications seem usually painted by the
mind of the medium, and are often notably feeble, absurd, and valueless.
To the members of this class the second explanation is the only tenable
one,--namely, that there are certain extraordinary powers resident in
the nervous organism which are capable of acting in opposition to the
ordinary energies of nature; that an intangible material exists outside
the body and penetrates physical objects, through whose aid the
nerve-power somehow operates to produce sounds and motions of bodies;
that this nerve-power may act unconsciously to the person who possesses
it in even a highly-developed state; that its action may be controlled
by the mind, acting either consciously or unconsciously; that old and
long-forgotten stores of the memory may take part in this action; and
that other minds may act through the medium's mind and set in action his
psychic powers unconsciously to himself.
That there is such a supersensible substance, and that the human mind
has such hitherto unknown powers, is not easy to admit. And yet when we
consider all the facts bearing upon the case it becomes equally hard to
deny. The history of mankind is full of stories of occult operations and
so-called supernatural performances. Those recorded are, of course, but
the merest fraction of those that have been observed. At the present day
this world of mystery seems everywhere around us. Outside of what is put
on record, almost every person one meets can relate some such mysterious
occurrence which has happened to himself or some of his acquaintances.
That a very great proportion of this has been self-deception must be
admitted. But all mankind is not blind and gullible; and if we strain
these stories of the marvellous through the sieve of criticism, some
considerable residuum will remain, which must be accounted for by
another theory than that of delusion.
The theory above given accounts in some degree for most of the facts,
though there are others which it is not easy to make fit in. Such are
the instances in which information unknown to any person present has
been given. We may instance the writing of the word covered by Professor
Crooks's finger, and the answer to Judge Edmonds's mental question
concerning his dying friend. Other striking instances of the same
character might be given, some of which have happened within the
knowledge of the writer. We may give in illustration the case of one
gentleman, a prominent businessman of Philadelphia, who received from a
medium a statement of the date of the death of a child that had occurred
many years before. The gentleman denied the correctness of the date, and
gave what he believed to be the correct one. But the medium insisted on
the date given. On going home and consulting his family record, to his
surprise the gentleman found that the medium was right and he
wrong,--that the child had died on the date stated, not on that which
had been impressed upon his memory.
Taking the case of mentality as a whole, it is certain that we are yet
far from being acquainted with all the powers and mysteries of the human
mental and nervous organism, despite all the researches of late years.
Nor do we know all the conditions and capabilities of the world of
matter which surrounds us, or the possibilities of intercommunication
of minds without the aid of the senses. On the other hand, Spiritualists
assert that we are equally far from knowing all the possibilities of
spirit existence or of communication between embodied and disembodied
mind. As to all this, it is perhaps best to remain in a state of
suspended decision and await the results of accurate observation to
settle the question definitely on one side or other. The investigation
now being carried on by a committee appointed by the University of
Pennsylvania, under the conditions of a bequest from the late Mr.
Seybert, will, it may be hoped, tend to clear up the mystery.
CHARLES MORRIS.
THE STORY OF AN ITALIAN WORKWOMAN'S LIFE.[B]
Si, signora, there are four of us,--Fausta, and Flavia, and Marc
Antonio, and I. La Mamma was left a widow when Marc Antonio was twelve
years old and Fausta ten, Flavia was eight, little Teresina (who died in
childhood) six, and I was only sixteen months old. All the rest can
remember Babbo [daddy], and many's the time, when I was a little one, I
have cried my eyes out with anger and jealousy because I couldn't
remember him too. Babbo was a good man, signora. Never an angry word, La
Mamma says,--not one,--in all the fifteen years they were married, and
_allegro, allegro_ (cheerful). He was a carrier, and he had only a
little time at home; but then he always played with the little ones and
made them happy. La Mamma loved him with all her heart; and often she
says, "Ah, if I ever come to Paradise, I pray our Lord to make me find
my Pietro again." Si, signora, I know our Lord said there was no
marrying or giving in marriage in heaven; La Mamma knows it too; but we
shall know each other, you know, up there, and our Blessed Lord is
merciful, and won't part those who love each other. La Mamma says so;
and I hope so, too. If ever I gain the rest of Paradise,--may our
Blessed Lord and the Madonna and all the saints grant it!--I want to
find my Luigi there too. Well, but I promised to tell the signora how
the Mamma brought us all up on only a franc a day. As I said already,
Babbo was a carrier. He did well, and sent Marc Antonio and Fausta and
Flavia to school, and me to a _balia_ in the country, and put something
by besides. La Mamma was a silk-weaver,--one of the best in Florence
then,--and she put by something too; for she worked hard every day.
Everything went well with them until the day that I came home from the
_baliatico_ (period of nursing in the country). I was well weaned, and a
strong, fine baby, and the _balia_ was proud of me; and Babbo was so
pleased to find me so well and lively that he gave the _balia_ two
francs more than he had agreed to do. But Babbo was always generous.
Well, the next day La Mamma took me in her arms and went to the
silk-shop where she had been at work, to see about selling her loom; for
the master of the shop was old and was giving up his business and
selling everything: it was just at that time that the silk-trade began
to go down in Florence. When the loom was sold, La Mamma put the money
in her purse, and then she went to put it in the bank, and then home.
When she got into the Borgo degli Santi Apostoli she saw several people
standing before our door; but she thought nothing of that, for we lived
on the top floor, and there were several other families in the house.
But when La Mamma came up to the door, she saw old Martia, her aunt, and
Miniato, her brother, there. They were both crying.
"Oh, _poverina, poverina_! here she is," says Miniato.
"_Madonna santissima_! how shall we ever tell her?" says Aunt Martia.
"For the love of God, tell me what it is!" said poor mamma, and her
heart died in her.
Well, in a few minutes, _adagio, adagio_, little by little, they told
her how it was. Near the Porta San Niccolò a heavy load of bricks had
been overturned, and poor Babbo, who was passing at the time, had been
badly hurt. His fine gray mule Giannetta was killed. So two troubles
came together. After a little the Misericordia brought Babbo home, and
they put him in bed, and one of the Brethren stayed to watch him that
night. He was badly hurt, and he never took a step again, though he
lived for six months. La Mamma did her best: the weaving was over,--she
could not have found much more weaving to do, even if Babbo had been
able to bear the noise of the loom,--but she knitted, and sewed, and did
what she could. Still, the money melted away. Babbo might have been put
into a hospital, but La Mamma couldn't bear to part with him, even
though he said often, as the days went on and he got no better, that he
would rather go into a hospital than lie there and feel that he was
eating up the little money he had put away for his wife and children.
"_Povera_ Leonora," he used to say,--"_povera_ Leonora, who must work so
hard while I lie here and play the signore!" And once or twice he cried
a little. But for the most part he was cheerful and bore his pain with
patience.
All the time _la povera Mamma_ kept up her courage, and made Babbo
believe that the money went three times as far as it did. But it melted
away; and, the day before Babbo died, when she counted it over she knew
that she had a hard struggle before her. She did not let him know it,
however. He thought she had money to last for two or three months. So
Easter came round, and still Babbo lay helpless and full of pain. The
priest came to confess and communicate him, as he does all the bedridden
at Easter-time, and that afternoon Babbo had less pain than for many a
day. He kissed and blessed us as usual at bedtime, and then he told La
Mamma to call him in the morning, so that he might light the lamp for
her. This was because the table with the lamp stood by his side of the
bed, and often La Mamma, who had to get up early, used to strike the
light without waking him. "But now that I have no pain," says Babbo,
"I'll strike a light for you, _cara mia_, so that you may have that
comfort." Easter fell early that year, in March, and the weather was
cold and stormy. When La Mamma woke up at four o'clock, the bells were
ringing for first mass, but it was cold and dark, and a storm was
raging. She could not bear to wake Babbo up, but she had promised to do
so, and she had a long day's work before her and no time to lose. So she
called him, very gently at first, and then louder. There was no answer,
and she touched his shoulder and shook him a little. Still there was no
answer, and, being frightened, she leaned over and touched his face.
_Povera mamma!_ it was cold as ice, and stiff. Then she put her hand on
his heart, but it was still. She jumped up quickly, but, in her fright
and grief, she could not find the matches. At last she did so, and then
she saw that he was dead. Little Teresa slept between them, and he had
her hand in his, clasped so tightly that it was many minutes before La
Mamma could set it free. She did so without waking the child, and then
she put her into bed with Flavia and Fausta, and woke Marc Antonio and
sent him for the doctor. When he was gone she lighted the fire and did
what she could to warm Babbo and bring the life back, though her heart
told her, as did the doctor when he came, that all was over. By and by
the children woke and cried, and La Mamma wondered that she could find
words to quiet them, and yet she did. When everything was over and the
house quiet, the poor soul felt her heart die in her breast, and would
have been glad to lie down and die too; but no, she could not. She had
to take out the purse and count the money again, and then she found that
after buying a reserved grave for Babbo at the Campo Santo at Trespiano
she would have just enough to pay the rent for the next six months. You
know, signora, that if a reserved grave is not bought at Trespiano the
bodies are put into the _fossa comune_, and that is the end. The graves
are not marked. La Mamma could not bear the thought of that, and so she
bought a reserved grave. Then came the funeral; and she called the
children together and told them that if they each wanted to carry a
taper for Babbo they would have to go without their supper that night.
They were very hungry, every one, for, what with the trouble, and the
care, and the sorrow of that last day, La Mamma had not been able to
cook the dinner, and they had had nothing all day but a piece of bread.
Ah, they were hungry! They had cried until they were tired out, and they
were as empty as organ-tubes. Marc Antonio has told me many a time about
it. "God forgive me," says he, "but when La Mamma said that, I felt the
hunger grip me like a tiger, and the devil tempted me, and I said to
myself, 'Babbo's gone to the world over there, and what good will a
taper do him? He was never the one to want us to go to bed hungry as
well as with a sore heart.'" But even while he thought the wicked
thoughts the love for Babbo came into his heart again. He burst out
crying and sobbing, and cried out, "Mamma, mamma, I don't want any
supper to-night; I don't! I don't!" _Poverino_! he was growing and
strong, and so hungry. Fausta and Flavia and little Teresa said the
same, but it hurt them less, and they did not cry. And then little
Teresa spoke up,--she was always as wise as a little angel:
"Mamma," says she, "the baby must have her supper, mustn't she?"
"_Poverina!_ what would you have?" says La Mamma. "Yes, the poor baby
must have her supper, indeed. She knows nothing, poor little one, of the
sorrow in the house, or she would not grudge Babbo a taper any more than
the rest of you."
Little Teresa smiled, "Then, mamma, I've baby's supper for her," says
she. "I did not eat my bread all day, and you can have it now to make a
_pappa_ for her."
So La Mamma took me in her arms and went into the kitchen, and then Marc
Antonio held me while she and Fausta and Flavia and Teresa made the
_pappa_; and then each one took it in turn to feed me. You cannot know,
signora, how often I have lain awake and cried to think that I should
have been the only one of us all to eat like a pig that night, while
dear Babbo lay dead in the house and the rest were sad and hungry.
_Pazienza_! we need patience in this world, even with ourselves
sometimes.
When the funeral was over, La Mamma put the house in order, and then she
took out all her papers and accounts and counted over all she had. Just
a little of the money that Babbo had saved was left,--enough, if she
never touched it, to bring in seventy-three francs a year,--that is,
twenty centimes [four cents] a day. She made up her mind that she would
never touch it, so that each day, as long as we lived, we might have at
least a piece of bread bought with Babbo's money. Then there was the
parish, which gave her some help. The guardians of the poor widows
appointed a guardian for us,--the Conte Bertoli, a good man, God rest
his soul,--and he applied to the poor widows' fund for La Mamma and got
her an allowance of fifty centimes [ten cents] a day until Marc Antonio
should be fifteen and able to work; and then the Signor Conte himself
added to that twenty centimes more, so that altogether La Mamma had a
franc a day. But there were six of us. Thankful enough she was to have
the franc; but still, as you may suppose, signora, she had to think a
good deal and work hard to keep us. The elder children had all been put
to a school near by, a nice school, but where Babbo had had to pay for
them; now that was changed. Fausta and Flavia and Teresa were sent to
the convent of the Doratei Sisters, and Marc Antonio to the Frate
Scalopi. There was nothing to pay at either place, and the children were
taught well and taken good care of. The convent of the Doratei is in the
Via dei Malcontenti, and that of the Frate Scalopi in the Piazza Santa
Croce. Marc Antonio and Fausta and Flavia and Teresa used to set off at
seven every morning, winter and summer, and La Mamma walked with them,
carrying me in her arms. She gave all the children a good breakfast of
hot _pappa_ before they set out for school, and some bread and apple, or
bread and onions, in a basket, to eat at dinner-time. At night, when
they came home, they had a good supper of _casalingo_ [household,
_i.e._, black] bread and milk. Then they were washed and put to bed; for
La Mamma was very strict, and never allowed any one out of bed after
eight o'clock. As soon as I was two years old I was sent to the Doratei
too; and the big dark convent, with the great garden behind, is the
first thing I ever remember. The good sisters were very kind to us. They
taught all the older girls to read and write, and sew and knit, not only
plain sewing, but fine stitching, and open-work, and fine darning, and
button-holes, and lace-work, and so on. They also taught them to make
beds, and sweep, and dust, and cook a little,--that is, how to make
broth, and _pappa_, and such simple things. From twelve to two every day
there was recreation. At twelve all the children, big and little, sat
down to dinner in the refectory with the nuns. The nuns had their own
dinner,--a very plain one always, for their rule is severe,--and the
children had whatever they brought with them. If anything was brought
that could be warmed over and made more nourishing, Sister Cherubina
never grudged the trouble. When dinner was over we sang a grace, and
then we all ran into the garden and had a good game of play. Of course
the very little ones did nothing all day but play and sleep. Sister
Arcangela took care of them. Sometimes on fine days the sisters used to
take us all out for a walk in the country. Twice every week we had
religious instruction. Padre Giovanni, our confessor, taught us
everything, our Credo and Pater Noster, and our holy religion, and the
holy gospel, and all the beautiful stories in the Bible, and the legends
of the saints. Which of our Lord's miracles does the signora think the
finest? For myself, I always liked the story of the night in which our
Blessed Redeemer came to his disciples walking on the water. And then of
the older stories I liked the one of poor Joseph and his brethren. What
bad devils the brothers were! But God brought good out of evil, and
rewarded poor Joseph, who was an angel, by making him a great king.
Well, still I am babbling on and telling you about our school, and
forgetting La Mamma. I told you she had a franc a day. Our rent cost a
hundred francs a year. That was a little more than twenty-five centimes
a day, and that left La Mamma about seventy centimes a day for food, and
clothing, and lights, and so on. La Mamma worked day and night. Whenever
she could, she used to sit up at night with sick people, for that was
paid well,--a franc a night; sometimes in grand houses as much as two
francs,--and then she could rest in the day-time when we were at school.
But, whatever she did, or wherever she went, she always managed to be at
the convent gate every evening at half-past five to bring us home. If by
any chance she could not do that, Marc Antonio always waited for us and
brought us home very carefully. He was a good, steady boy, and never
stopped to play when we were with him, and always shut himself in with
us at home and did his best to take care of us until La Mamma came back.
God forgive me! but I used to think La Mamma very hard in those days.
She would never let us go the length of a yard alone; and once when she
caught me running out on the stairs to play hide-and-seek with some
girls and boys who lived on the floor below us, she gave me such a slap
that my ears rang again. Well, to tell truth, we had so much playing in
the convent garden, and such a long walk home in the evening, that we
were generally rather tired and glad to get quickly to bed as mamma bade
us. She, _poverina!_ always sat up, patching and darning, long after we
were in bed, so that we might go decently to school.